Q-uestionable Relations
by AnarchistMongoose
Summary: "Oh, I have use for brothers, Mycroft, but that doesn't mean I want to talk to them. And Q, shut up. Don't make out that you're any better, Mummy's told us all about this James." In which Sherlock broods, Q has a crush, and Mycroft is the only mature Holmes brother. Now a multi-chaptered story.
1. Q-uestionable Relations

**I've been hit by the Bondlock bug, just like so many others. This has been beta'ed by the wonderful wordonawing, and has also been posted on AO3. Enjoy.**

* * *

"So. Blow up anything recently?"

Q sniffs disdainfully over the rim of his teacup. "Of course not, that's the agents' job. I'm the one who has to put it all back together."

"Ah, my mistake. I meant to ask Sherlock."

"Getting short sighted in your old age, Mycroft?" There is a rustle as Sherlock turns the page of his newspaper. "Can't even tell your own brothers apart."

Mycroft sneers. He is sitting in an armchair in a private apartment in Islington, rented out for a short time for the annual "get-together" (his mind curls quotation marks around the word even as he thinks it – he does so detest colloquialisms). They never miss it, not even for international incidents, which are more common than you might think; a side effect of the respective occupations of the three men currently sitting decidedly not-talking to each other

He looks over at his brothers, who are lounging in armchairs across from him. Well, Sherlock is lounging, stretched out like a cat, eyes serious as he scans the newspaper in his ink-stained fingers. Q, on the other hand, appears to be attempting to look confident and at ease in his chair, but not quite succeeding. Anyone else would believe the illusion, but Mycroft has known Q since the latter was born - he can tell when he's hiding something. His brother is just a little too proper, too stiff; his hands are clasped tightly in his lap, and every few minutes he pushes his glasses up his nose, a nervous habit Mycroft recognises from their childhood.

He takes a moment to study both Q and Sherlock. The thick black hair is the same, but there the physical resemblance slows down, stops, and flees back the

way it came.

For a start, though their body shapes are quite similar (they're both too skinny, Mycroft notes disapprovingly - muscular physiques have an unfortunate habit of running in families), Sherlock is at least four inches taller than his slighter brother. Q stands - or rather sits, hunched over his laptop, which appears to be his default position - noticeably shorter than his brothers, his curly head just brushing Mycroft's shoulder, and as such is always forced (much to his annoyance) to look up at them. His small stature also has the disarming effect of leading potential enemies to dismiss him as worthless, which is of course a rather foolish deduction to make. Mycroft is reluctant to praise either of his brothers, knowing as he does how big their egos are already, but Q is probably one of the most dangerous individuals in Britain, perhaps the world. Another two, of course, share the teapot resting on a rather hideously patterned tray in front of them, not to mention a good chunk of his DNA.

Sherlock, on the other hand, makes more of an intimidating impression, what with his ridiculous habit of sticking up the collar of his coat in a pathetic attempt to look enigmatic. The lines of his face are sharper and more angled than Q's, and his eyes are chips of cold green glass, whereas his brother's are darker, softer, friendlier.

Ugh. Friendliness. Not overly demonstrative, mind you, but Q is still...more approachable than the rest of his family. Perhaps warmth would be a better word. A useless character trait, but one that Q insists on maintaining, despite several lectures from both Mycroft and Sherlock throughout his young life.

Their mannerisms are mostly different as well. Sherlock's gaze is always moving, darting around the room, not stopping to rest for more than a millisecond, taking everything in. Q's is intense (perhaps unexpectedly so, given his habit of dressing like an old man and looking like a twelve year old, which might be the exact reason for dressing like an old man, now that Mycroft thinks about it), cutting and bold like the lasers he likes to manufacture. Even as a child he always enjoyed dangerous things. Mycroft blames Sherlock.

"Tell you apart? At least I make some attempt to keep in contact, Sherlock. You obviously have no use for petty things like brothers, what with the fact that I have to go through other channels in order to talk to you."

His youngest brother smirks. "Yes, I heard about that. The famous army doctor… John was it?"

"Oh, I have use for brothers, but that doesn't mean I want to talk to them. And Q, shut up. Don't make out that you're any better, Mummy's told us all about this James."

It is meant as a joke, a crack at one of the agents Q finds so tiresome (or says he does), so the reaction is completely unexpected.

Q ducks his head slightly, staring at his shoes, and a faint tinge of pink blooms across his cheeks.

In an instant, Sherlock has dropped his paper and grabbed hold of Q's wrist, staring searchingly into his eyes. Q squirms and wriggles his way out of his brother's grasp, but not before Sherlock has found what he is looking for.

"Elevated heartbeat, dilated pupils, and… are you blushing?!" Sherlock stares incredulously. Q scowls, looking for all the world like a petulant child. Which, Mycroft supposes, he is.

"No. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You were blushing, I saw you!"

"I wasn't."

"You were! What – who is this James?! Do you like him?" The way Sherlock says the word 'like', with a slightly horrified expression on his face and a curl of the lip, vaguely reminds Mycroft of the way children say it. It's to be expected, with Sherlock's experience in, ahem, that area.

"I. Wasn't. Blushing." Q still has not looked up, and is instead glaring into his tea. His expression is so fierce that Mycroft reckons it is best to interfere, before his youngest brother starts to make weaponry out of the upholstery (always a valid concern around Q).

"I'm sure you weren't, Q. Sherlock." His brother turns to him, disbelieving. Mycroft motions him to be silent, and Sherlock sits back, appeased. He understands. They will meet later to discuss this new development, and do some research into this 'James'. They do not like others interacting too closely with their little brother, especially MI6 agents, and Q's reaction suggests something a little more than friendship, on his end at least. The situation is serious.

There is silence while Q composes himself and Sherlock broods in a corner. Mycroft sighs. He's been trying to avoid this.

"Please, you two. You are acting like children."

Sherlock opens his mouth, no doubt to say something about Q starting it, but Mycroft shoots him a look. He rarely has any control over his brothers, but Sherlock knows when not to push. Well, not really, but he is busy thinking up interesting methods of torture for unsuspecting secret agents. Mycroft approves.

* * *

**This will probably be part of a series, with separate stories. I'm not quite sure yet.**


	2. An Unexpected Caller

**A/N: Okay, as you've probably realised, I am writing more in this series. But because doesn't support that kind of structure, I'm just going to post them to this story. So, more chapters. They will not necessarily be set in a straight line because that's not the way I'm writing this, but I'll try and tell you when each one is set. Vaguely. Think of them like drabbles. **

**This one could be any time, actually, but let's say it's a couple of weeks after the last one. Betaed by wordonawing. Also poasted on AO3.  
**

**I don't own Skyfall or BBC Sherlock and I make no profit from this. **

* * *

The skin around Q's eyes tightened as he scowled. He was sitting at his console, fingers flickering across the keyboard, with blueprints on the screen, Earl Grey in his mug and an agent in the corner. The blueprints he could deal with easily and the tea was welcomed, but Bond presented a bit more of a problem.

"Do you require anything, 007? Because you seem to have been lurking for quite a while without saying anything, and I'm sure you have places to be."

"Hmm? Oh no, please, don't let me disturb you."

"I assure you, Agent, you finishing your business and leaving the room would in no way disturb me, quite the opposite in fact."

This was the problem. Every time he interacted with Bond, he snapped at him because of the amount of feelings that he prompted within Q. Growing up, he had always been taught that emotions were not a good thing to display, and although he often questioned the wisdom of his brothers – as well as their child-raising skills – he agreed that this particular pearl made sense. Especially in a workplace such as MI6, where the staff cultivated the special breed of madness required to secretly defend a country, and often used their training to spread gossip or plant love notes in each other's desks. Q was above such things, of course.

And now, this agent had just swanned in, disrupting all of Q's carefully built emotional shields and causing the blood to move to the surface in his face. He refused to call it blushing. Thirteen year old girls blushed. Quartermasters did not.

"I was just wondering if you had any pens lying around."

"Hilarious, 007. I shouldn't be surprised about your obsession with them, seeing the amount of explosions you regularly cause."

Bond smirked. "I can make many things explode, Q. Would you like me to show you?"

There was a pause, and then Q's eyes slowly moved to stare incredulously at the agent.

"I wouldn't have marked you as the type for such crassness, 007. I would have expected something a bit more high class than that."

A gleam appeared in the 00's eye. "I can do high class too, if you prefer."

"Please, spare me that honour." Q's gaze was now fixed to the screen in front of him, decidedly not looking anywhere near Bond. He wasn't certain that he would be able to without doing or saying something embarrassing.

"Well, anytime you change your mind - " Suddenly, a buzz sounded from the direction of Q's pocket, interrupting the agent. Q froze. Then the ringtone started, and his hands started to frantically dive into his pockets.

"Don't you dare say a word," he gritted out. His brother had changed his ringtone. Again. And now he was calling when he knew that Q would be at work. Hell, he had probably called for that exact reason! He had no doubt that it was Sherlock calling. Only his brothers had this number, and Mycroft preferred to go through M - the only reason being he didn't want to threaten national security, which interrupting Q could sometimes result in.

Bond was smirking. "Mission Impossible, Q? Really? And you know you're not supposed to have phones on in here. What would Mallory say?"

"It's a work phone." Q snapped. He glared at Bond, who was just opening his mouth, and decisively put the phone to his ear.

"What."

"I need you to do something for me." Sherlock, as expected, did not so much ask as demand.

"What?" The sooner he could get this over with, the better. It was embarrassing enough just having 007 in the room, but when his brother was on the phone…

"You sound angry, Q, who is it?" Bond seemed to be enjoying himself, the sod. "Somebody unwelcome?"

"You could say that."

"What?" Ah yes, his brother. "No Q, listen, this is important. I was on the British Army website - "

"Sorry, why exactly were you on that website?"

"Research."

"Ah, of course. John."

"Is that who's on the phone then?" Bloody hell, could the agent never shut up? Couldn't Bond see he was trying to have a conversation here?! Q held the mobile away from his ear and glared, attempting to ignore the sullen protestations coming from Sherlock.

"No! It's, um, it's technical support." He placed the phone back so he could hear his brother. "Shut up, I don't care, just tell me what you want."

"Fine! I found a grammatical error."

"You _are_ technical support!"

"What?! Bond, shut the hell up! I am _trying _to have a conversation, and for the last time, we are not technical support!" The double-oh just raised an eyebrow and mockingly held a finger to his lips.

"It's an Oxford comma, and I want you to hack the site and change it. I have no _idea_ how they got such a simple thing wrong, I am surrounded by idiots, this entire country - "

"You called me up, at work, to tell me about a bloody Oxford comma?! Strangely enough, I don't actually give a rat's arse!" His entire department seemed to be staring at him now - not a good sign.

The voice on the other end was more sullen now. "Mycroft would care."

"Talk to him then!" He was the one in charge of most of bloody England!

"I refuse to call Mycroft for assistance. Actually, I refuse to call him. Ever. In any circumstance."

"Oh for the love of - !" Q caught sight of an intern throwing him a terrified glance, and took a deep breath, forcefully calming himself down. "Alright, this is what you're going to do. You are going to hang up, you are going to email the administration of the site to tell them your grievances - _without_ making them want to kill you, which means _politely_ - and until you get over this ridiculous feud, you will not ever bother me again, especially when you know I'm at work."

He hung up, and gazed at the screen, contemplating ways to destroy it. Or his brother. Preferably his brother.

"Well." Bond cleared his throat. "That was interesting."

"Get out. Now." His knuckles were white where he had been clenching his fist. He was going to punch someone soon, and he'd prefer it not to be a double-oh. They had the rather annoying habit of punching back. And all of Q-branch (_not_ technical support, despite what Bond along with most of the other field agents seemed to think) was watching them now, and he'd rather not give them anymore of a show than he already had.

"If you're sure?"

"Very much so." His breathing was slowing now, and he was starting to calm himself down.

"If this person in… "technical support" is bothering you, I could always…?" Q blinked. Was Bond offering to … help him? He stared at the agent, who was gazing back at him with an unreadable expression. Blood bloomed in his cheeks and he dropped his eyes to the floor, his fingers suddenly fumbling for something to do.

"That will not be necessary, 007, thank you for your concern." He managed to choke out the words.

"Of course, Q." Bond inclined his head, eyes still fixed on him. "You know to find me if you change your mind."


	3. Four Against One

**A/N: ****I apologise deeply for my tardiness, and I also apologise for the amount of fluff in this bit, which wasn't actually what I had in mind for the next in the series but I've been having a bit of a hard time of life recently so yeah, fluff. This is set when they were younger, obviously, so the series is officially not in chronological order!**

**Beta-ed by wordonawing, you took your time love but oh well, love you anyway.**

* * *

There were four of them. They caught up with him on the lane just past the library, sufficiently far away from both the school and any other buildings, including his house, that no one would hear them.

He was pushed in a puddle and onto the path and his knee got cut and they rubbed soil on his face, but he mostly mourned for his books. His bookbag wasn't waterproof and he just knew that all the work inside would be ruined. That was probably the point. They didn't like him because he was smarter than they were. Than everyone else at the school, actually.

Which was part of the reason why he didn't have any friends.

He didn't mind though. His books were his friends. And Sherlock and Mycroft. But they didn't count. Because they were his brothers and they were supposed to like him. Though they probably didn't like him anyway.

* * *

"You're late, midget." Sherlock's voice echoed down from above.

Q sniffled slightly and rubbed a hand over his nose. In a bedroom on the second floor, a pair of eyebrows furrowed. There was a creak as Sherlock scrambled out of his room to stand at the top of the stairs, gazing down at his little brother.

"Midget?"

Mycroft peered over the banister, eyes widening minutely when he saw the youngest member of their family, then growing cold as he fully took in the state of his sibling. In the silence, a drop of muddy water dripped off Q's bookbag.

"How many were there, Q?"

"Don't k-know what you m-mean." His eyes shifted restlessly around the entrance hall. He knew his brothers wouldn't believe him, but perhaps if he denied it they would lose interest and just leave him alone.

"How many." Q flinched. His oldest brother wasn't even phrasing that as a question.

"F-four."

"I see." He heard footsteps, and risked a glance upwards. Sherlock was standing on the top step, eyes flicking over his little brother's body, cataloguing. And Mycroft, Mycroft was…coming down the stairs towards him?

Q watched with wide eyes as his eldest brother, his absolutely spotless eldest brother, who refused to touch the piano without wiping the keys down first (or rather, getting someone else to wipe them down for him), was kneeling on the floor in front of him?

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Q gave him a wide-eyed look. Mycroft hated getting his clothes dirty! But his brother was nodding, and his back was there and Q's knees were sore so he dropped his bag and scrambled up.

* * *

It was the end of the school day, and Q was happy. Why wouldn't he be happy? Just then, he had lots of reasons to be happy. There had been carrot sticks at breaktime and he got full marks on his numeracy test and his teachers were really nice about him not being able to give in his homework because the sheet got wet, and his knees weren't even sore because Sherlock had mixed some of the ointments so that they wouldn't sting and Mycroft had found Winnie the Pooh plasters. They had different characters but Q had chosen Tigger because he was his favourite, and then Rabbit and Owl because they reminded him of Mycroft and Sherlock.

But when he got into the playground he paused. What if those boys were there again? They were probably stupid enough to do the same thing twice in a row (which Sherlock, of course, had told him never to do). There were no other ways for him to get home and he couldn't wait for them to get bored and leave because it was getting dark and he was meant to be home before five anyway. He licked his lips nervously. What to do?

He was still contemplating the problem when he heard it.

"Where is he? We can't have missed him, the gate's right in front of us."

"He's probably just talking to the teacher, he'll be here soon."

"Well he's clearly not talking to the teacher, Mycroft, because that's his teacher over there. Why is he taking so long? I never took this long to get out of school!"

"Sherlock, will you please just be quiet."

His older brothers were standing by the gate, both scowling moodily. Or rather, Sherlock was scowling moodily, Mycroft would never so something so undignified. Q beamed. His brothers were here. Here! At his school! The school that Sherlock had pledged he would never return to because he hated it so much! He bounded up to them.

"Hello, Q. Finally out?" Mycroft was smiling. It wasn't big, but Q could definitely see it.

"Took you long enough." The smile grew slightly sharper. Uh oh, not a good sign. Just when he thought his brothers were about to start arguing, they exchanged a glance and Sherlock stepped forward.

"Come along, Q." He blinked, surprised. Usually that would be Mycroft's next line. Ah well. He grabbed Sherlock's hand. It was only when they had passed the gate that Q realised his eldest brother was not with them. He glanced around, puzzled.

"Mycroft's gone to talk to some people."

"Some people?"

"Who needed to be talked to."

"Oh…" Not surprisingly, this hadn't exactly cured Q's confusion, which Sherlock seemed to sense.

"So, what asinine, banal activity did school bring you today?"

"We had carrot sticks at breaktime! You know, the ones you buy from supermarkets that are full of chemicals so they go mouldy about a day after you open the bag, even if you put them in the fridge? But it was okay because they open two bags and everyone gets some and if you stay a little longer before you go out into the playground then you can grab one extra, and Miss Rogers gave me another because I got full marks on my test and she said it couldn't hurt, and…"

* * *

Mycroft joined them about fifteen minutes later, and the boys didn't bother him again.

* * *

**Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and followed this story so far, I love you all.**


End file.
